


I Can't Live on Excuses

by mimi_chi



Category: Katekyo Hitman Reborn
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 04:03:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7084876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimi_chi/pseuds/mimi_chi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The Hanahaki Disease is an illness born from one-sided love, where the patient coughs up flowers or flower petals. The only cure is to have that love reciprocated, or to somehow wipe away all one’s memories of their beloved person. "</p><p>Mukuro believes the flowers he's been coughing up are just an elaborate illusion. It's easier to believe that than the fact he's dying due to unrequited love.</p><p>Pairing is pretty much choose your own adventure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can't Live on Excuses

The first few instances Mukuro had coughed up flower petals, he had brushed it off as nothing more than the feeble last attempt at an attack from one of his adversaries, a pitiful man he could have left to Fran, but had picked off as a way to keep his skills sharp.

 _Pathetic_ , he had thought mildly when he pulled his gloved hand away from his mouth, watching a lone white petal drift down to the floor. Had the man believed he would have choked to death on flowers? If Byakuran had not been able to kill him in such a manner, what made a no-name illusionist believe he would have any effect on him? 

It would have been better if he had used the last of his power to hide his unsightly corpse, but Mukuro supposed leaving it out in the open as a warning for his enemies was a better end than he deserved.

He had turned a heel and left without another thought to his fallen enemy or that flower petal, boot barely stirring the dust.

\- - -

One petal turned to many, which turned into full flowers, white and nearly shapeless, devoid of odor or taste.

_They're only real if you give them power._

Mukuro could hear a sultry sweet voice whisper in the back of his mind, so he only brushed the flowers off of the sink edge and into the toilet, flushing them down balefully. Perhaps he hadn't given enough credit where credit was due, if the effects of that illusionist's dying curse was lingering like this.

In a few days he expected the memory of the man to fade, as transparent and fragile as these flowers.

\- - -

As the weeks turned into months, Mukuro had to revise his previous hypothesis. 

There was no way in hell that the third-rate illusionist would have been able to affect him with a curse, even with his dying breath, not even if there had been a thousand of him.

Instead, this must be some ill-advised prank of Fran's. Nevermind that his apprentice would have bragged ceaselessly about finally being able to pull off an illusion that would have affected Mukuro at all, but his normally mouthy pupil had said nothing about the flowers. That Fran didn't have the patience and dedication to pull off an illusion, not yet.

He had considered asking him about it, briefly and indirectly, but the warning had whispered in his mind again, soft but all encompassing.

_They're only real if you give them power._

So Mukuro had left it well alone, resigning himself to leaving a basket by his bed, emptying it out the window as soon as it was full. 

For a few weeks, no one was the wiser until Chikusa caught him one morning, expression odd and peculiar as he watched Mukuro cough up a handful of flowers. Though they had once been dull, tasteless, formless things, now they were starting to strengthen in shape. The buds which once dissolved as soon as they touched anything solid, now had to be torn apart, the flowers stiff stems starting to scratch at his throat. There was a lingering aftertaste that Mukuro couldn't quite place, but could deduce it was unpleasant, like he'd eaten chalk or licked dirt off of the floor for a few hours.

Mukuro spat out a few stray flowers in distaste, ignoring Chikusa's concern as he dumped the flowers out the window. “Mukuro-sama...” The other boy started, hesitating in the doorway, eyes flickering from Mukuro's expression to the basket he laid back down next to his bed. 'How long has this been going on? Should I be worried? Will you be okay?' Every one of those questions was wrapped tightly in his name, and smirking as confidently as always, Mukuro stood, swaggering to where Chikusa stood.

“It's nothing.” Mukuro said, resting a comforting hand against Chikusa's shoulder. While neither of them were keen on physical affection, Mukuro was aware of the affect it had on Chikusa, and he could see most of the worry drain out of the other boy's shoulders. ' _They're only real if you give them power._ ' He wanted to say to him, but those weren't his words. “We have work to do.” Mukuro reminded him instead, turning to call for Ken, Fran, and M.M.

\- - - 

It's only when the nausea became so terrible that Mukuro found himself unable to keep anything down, when his hands shook with little provocation, and his mouth tasted solely of dust and chalk and poisoned earth, that he conceded that these flowers may be a very real problem.

“Hanahaki disease. I gave Trident Shamal your symptoms and that's what he said.” M.M. said with a practiced disinterest, nails held out in front of her as she eyed the manicure that undoubtedly had actual diamonds encrusted in it. While M.M.'s fees were exorbitant, she was one of the few people that Mukuro could have given this task to. She knew her explicit silence was built into the money Mukuro wired to her bank account, not to mention troubling his cute little Chrome over this small matter was more ludicrous than giving M.M. money.

The diagnosis make Mukuro scoff, which unfortunately set off a coughing fit, Ken and Chikusa dutifully holding out a basket each. Both were filled by the time that Mukuro was finished, breathing heavy and heart thudding painfully hard in his chest, and all the occupants in the room had the decency ( or fealty, perhaps ) to not say a word.

Other than-

“What's that? Does it mean master is so repugnant that coughing up flowers is the universe's way of making him apologize for his existence?” Fran asked in a deadpan monotone, only making the minimal fuss when Mukuro stabbed his latest fruit themed hat through with his trident.

“It's an old wives' tale.” Mukuro said dismissively, unimpressed. “Such a shame, but I'll be asking for a deep discount in the future or a refund-”

“It's a disease born from a one sided love.” M.M. cut in, always quick to defend her bank account. “There's no known cure, and in most cases it's fatal.”

There were was a pregnant pause before Ken and Fran started howling with laughter, shrieking some garbled words that were close to 'love' and 'one-sided'.

“Mukuro-sama, if it's me, know that I love you right back.” Ken said with a fangy grin, leaning forward as if to slobber affectionately all over his face, Mukuro stilling him with a hand a sigh.

“Master, if it's me, as soon as you have enough flowers to make a bouquet, please give them to me when you confess. I'll be sure to accept you then.” Fran stated solemnly, the only thing to give him away was the slight upwards quirk of his mouth. Mukuro stabbed him again through his hat for all of his trouble, viciously, ready to rise up from the couch to cause some real pain and suffering to his apprentice when Mukuro heard Chikusa's soft voice. 

“Is it true, Mukuro-sama?” His voice was so low it would have been difficult to hear him over Ken and Fran's cackling, if Mukuro wasn't so used to it. Chikusa was the only one who seemed to take the diagnosis seriously, his expression tormented. 

Huffing, Mukuro flicked his hair out of his face, unimpressed. He started to reassure him, but coughs started to rack through his body, flowers spilling from between the spaces of his fingers. The longer the attack went on, the quieter it became, until Mukuro felt wrung out and raw, settling back onto the couch.

“Mukuro-chan.” He turned to look at M.M.'s face, which held concern and a ( small ) inkling of affection. “Please leave your finances to me.”

Nonpulsed, Mukuro pulled out his phone to cancel the money transfer to M.M.'s account despite her loud protests and ( half-hearted sounding but wholly sincere ) declarations of love. He ignored the pinched look on Chikusa's face, and the worried glance he shared with the others. 

\- - -

When the flowers start to promise to bloom in color, Mukuro left his followers behind to make the trek to the woman whose voice he kept hearing, a warning or perhaps the siren's call to his own death.

“Faustino.” The woman who had been something akin to a mentor to him greeted, as ageless as the day she had been when he met her, hair still inky black, tied up in an intricate hairdo, blue eyes still clear and sharp. He addressed her only as 'Chahua', but he knew her real name just as she knew his, one of the few still alive who knew it. She was the only one who still insisted on using it however, as if knowing the name he had thrown away had any meaning whatsoever to him.

He bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment even though he had long since surpassed her in both ability and power, settling across from her in the opulent chair provided to him. Chahua had always had a taste for the most beautiful things in life, everything from art to people. Not for the first time, Mukuro considered himself fortunate to be born with such an attractive face.

“Chahua.” He greeted back, accepting the cup of tea. Or at least he meant to, but his hand shook so badly that he was unable to take the cup from the saucer, and did his best to mask it as a dismissive gesture. Chahua didn't look convinced, and while Mukuro would have been appalled at himself for such an obvious display of weakness, he hadn't slept the last few weeks. The coughing kept him awake, the flowers threatening to clog his esophagus, if the poison didn't kill him first.

Oleander. Unlike it's reputation suggested, it wasn't as toxic as widely believed. But in the quantities that Mukuro was coughing up, even he was having trouble keeping his body functioning properly. His heart was pounding so rapidly and heavily that it felt like a fist punching against his rib cage. He was having trouble controlling his hands, and his coordination with the rest of his body was barely any better. He hadn't been able to eat for a few weeks, and lately he was having trouble keeping down liquids due to the nausea. Hopping into another body only made the symptoms worse, and since most of his other vessels weren't as sturdy as his, they expired in a matter of days. 

“Why are you here?” She asked, holding her cup with no difficulties and looking far too smug about it, as if she already knew why Mukuro was here but wanted to hear it pried from his own lips. 

Instead of responding, Mukuro decided it would be best to lean over one of the armrests of his chair and spill a tiny mountain of oleanders onto her pristine floor, not bothering to hide his gagging and gasps for breath.

The only reaction he got from her was a slight wrinkling of her nose in distaste, one of her attendants rushing forward to start sweeping up the mess and to delicately put an ornate wastebasket in front of him. Carelessly, he spat out another flower into it, eyes never leaving Chahua.

“You think I had a hand in this.” Anyone else it would have been a question, but from Chahua it was a condescending statement, as if she couldn't believe Mukuro had wasted her time on this. 

“There are few who have the ability to affect me.” Mukuro admitted grudgingly, too tired to put more finesse into this conversation, to hide it properly behind layers of mist. He had considered Mammon of the Varia briefly, before dismissing the idea. The Varia had little reason to want him dead, especially since his tiny apprentice was being shuttled back and forth between them. His cute little Chrome attacking him was a laughable thought. Fran, while talented, was still young and a far cry from what he became in the future. There was no one else who could cast an illusion of this caliber.

And that's what this was. An illusion that he refused to believe in, and yet it was still killing him.

Chahua observed him for a few moments. “In the illusion, there is the truth.” She said slowly, as if this was the first time she was telling him this instead of the millionth, as if he hadn't carved those words into his mind. He was tempted to snap back the reply, but he knew what that not-answer meant.

“If that's all you have to offer, I'm leaving.” He retorted smartly as he forced his body upright, looking down at Chahua with lashes lowered. Coming here was a mistake. Even in his weakened state he could brush aside Chahua's illusions easily, see her for the old woman she was. She wouldn't be able to snare him in her illusions even if he was on his deathbed.

“Faustino. An illusionist should never lie to themselves. Not knowing your weaknesses and your own senses can be fatal, and separates a good illusionist from a great one.” Chahua said, her words giving him pause as he stood at the doorway, acting as if he was listening instead of actually gathering his bearings. He had stood far too fast, and he was fighting the urge to cough up more flowers. “The only way to cure Hanahaki disease is to have your love become reciprocated.”

Mukuro snorted at that advice, bowing his head in mock respect. “From the very beginning, I've only been my own and no one else's.” He shut the door behind him, coughing into a gloved hand and leaving a trail of oleander in his wake.

\- - -

“Mukuro-sama.” He opened his eyes blearily, vision swimming until it sharpened in on Chrome's worried face, her hand cool against his forehead. _Traitors_ he thought uncharitably about Chikusa and Ken, who had undoubtedly fetched her in the hope that she would be able to figure out the source of his disease. 

With Chrome, there was less of a need to posture, to sit up in order to alleviate her fears. She pressed her forehead to his, her tiny hands balling up in his blankets, her eye squeezed shut. He didn't need their connection to feel her sorrow, her worry, her love. Despite everything, they were still far too connected for his liking, though there were things that kept them apart. He would keep his secrets. To do otherwise would be to lose himself in her, and Mukuro was stubborn above all else.

“There's no need to worry.” He said soothingly, running a hand through her short hair, hand gentle and comforting like it would be with no one else. “I'm just tired.”

Chrome didn't look convinced at all by that, her hands tightening until they were white as bone on his sheets.

“Maybe the Boss-” She started softly, though her tone was full of a conviction that Mukuro was glad she was starting to cultivate even if he didn't much appreciate what she was saying.

“No.” He said sharply, hand falling back to his side. He would die of pride before going to the mafia for help, especially when he was sure there was no cure readily available to him. He would like to say this wasn't the worst way he had died, but it was the most humiliating. 

Anything she had to say was drowned out by Mukuro turning to his side to cough out more oleanders, now bright red and fully realized. He'd given up on having them cleaned out of the room, their sweet and cloying scent hanging heavy in the air. Unbidden, Chrome crawled into the bed next to him, curling up with him, rubbing his back and he heaved until he wasn't sure if the red on the flowers was due to their own color or from the blood in his throat.

\- - -

When he awoke next, he was in a hospital, the white curtains fluttering in the breeze and letting sunlight in. 

“I asked Byakuran what the meaning of oleanders were.” The Vongola Decimo's voice was quiet, wary. For a moment, Muuro was filled with unspeakable fury that Chrome had alerted one of the last people he wanted to know about his condition. She may as well have directed his enemies to him as well, least anyone who had wanted to see him dead missed their chance. “'Beware'.” Tsunayoshi Sawada said, voice trembling slightly. “But he also said that it means you should leave the past in the past.” Mukuro didn't have to turn to look at him in order to see his expression, but he did so anyway, taking in that grief stricken expression, the way that this slip of a boy had been the first person to truly defeat him. That in a few years he would be the most feared and respected man in the mafia. Now, however, he was wringing his scarred hands nervously, eyes wide and earnest.

Deftly, Mukuro propped himself up on his elbow, neatly vomiting a mountain of oleanders in a startled Vongola Decimo's lap. 

“This warning may be for you, Vongola Decimo.” Mukuro said with a smirk, lying back down in the hospital bed while Tsunayoshi Sawada flailed, watching the scene in amusement. 

He would take the secret of his love to his grave, but in all other aspects, he would not go quietly.


End file.
